Sock Puppet
07-07-2009, 08:05 PM
I put off posting about this because I couldn't come up with a really good tittle. I still can't, so you get this shitty one instead. I was also upstaged by Teh Chinkei having a truly terrible weekend, so y'all have permission just to laugh at my petty misfortunes. But HOW DARE YOU OMGUAS for doing that. Bastards. :glare:
On Friday night, Mrs. Puppet, Li'l Puppet and I went to our favorite local Mexican restaurant, Los Gallitos ("The Little Chickens [Roosters]"). Despite it being way too fucking hot, we sat outside 'cause there's a playground and a lake back there, with hilariously ugly ducks that are fun to feed until they get too greedy. No chickens, however; they must not believe in playing with one's food.
So we find a table that's mostly in the shade, right on the edge of the concrete patio. Past the edge is dirt and shrubbery, with a grassy hill beyond, overlooking the lake. The location starts out okay, but after awhile, the sun has changed position enough that it's sort of in my eyes, so I decide to slide over.
We are right. On the edge. Of the concrete.
One leg of my metal chair goes off the concrete, and I head ass-over-teakettle into the landscaping. I wind up on my back, with one hand in the dirt, trying to right myself while trapped in this bigassed metal chair. Now, while I complain that my gut is growing bigger for the first time in my life, I'm not by any means overweight -- yet (6'2", less than 200 lbs). I also only have half of one margarita in me at this point. Even so, I can't get out of this fucking chair and right myself, and as a couple fellow patrons come over to help haul me up, I have hideous flashbacks to an awful lunch at a restaurant with my drunken, overweight father, who kept falling over in his chair. :shudder:
Then, to add injury to insult, I feel a sharp pain in my wrist, and there's this one little ant chewing on me. Not a fire ant, just a little black ant. I slap it away, but the little bastard has managed to inject me with his formic acid or whatever, and two huge welts balloon up. They stayed the same size and painfulness until just today, 4 days later, when they're finally starting to shrink. (:bunnythrust:)
So, glad that's over. That has to be the most embarassing thing to happen to me all weekend, right?
The next day, my wife has this Brilliant Plan to go to a nearby park for a picnic. It's actually a really nice park, except that as opposed to the previous day's Really Fucking hot, it's now OMG Are You Fucking Kidding Me hot. We take the neighbor kid along who's Li'l Puppet's age (the one belonging to the family we don't hate), and after having lunch we decide to find a shady spot to toss Li'l Puppet's ball around. Well, the best spot is on a hill overlooking a half-dried-up creekbed.
This is one of those cheapie Wal-Mart-issue balls, the type they keep a couple hundred of in those giant cages while they wait to be either adopted or euthanized. But for some reason Li'l Puppet has feelings of attachment for this stupid ball. So when one of the kids misses the catch and it goes rolling down the hill toward the creek, I go chasing after it like a brain-damaged Irish setter.
The creek is half dried up. The half that's dried up, arid and cracked on the surface, is on the near side, the water's on the other.
Y'know what happens when a creek half dries up in subtropical fucking swampland? Yes, you probably know. I think I did too, but for some reason that didn't stop me.
Not until I'd taken about half a dozen steps into it. That's when my brain got its message to my feet, i.e., "What the hell are you morons doing?"
I suppose I should consider myself lucky they only ended up ankle-deep in foul-smelling, black slime, and I didn't do a faceplant.
So the Li'l Puppet is despondent about losing her precious $2.99 ball*, I'm wearing slime galoshes, and it's hotter than Satan's bunghole (and at this point probably smells about the same). This is Fate's lovingly subtle way of telling me it's time to go home.
Later that afternoon, we set up a new Slip 'n' Slide for the kids, and my fully-clothed wife tried to demonstrate how to use it. Not nearly as epic a FAIL as mine, but at least somebody else was doing something :hoot:-worthy for a change. Maybe she did it on purpose.
I spent that evening making my Sooper Sekrit Recipe margaritas for our friends and getting nearly as drunk as I should've been to do the stupid things I'd already done while sober that weekend. I walked steadily and didn't so much as spill my drink the entire night. I don't think I want to know what the moral to this story is.
*The next day she gave equal time to both her sadness over the ball's demise and her gratefulness that I didn't "drown in the quicksand," lest anyone think she valued the ball over me. We are roughly equal in value, dammit.
On Friday night, Mrs. Puppet, Li'l Puppet and I went to our favorite local Mexican restaurant, Los Gallitos ("The Little Chickens [Roosters]"). Despite it being way too fucking hot, we sat outside 'cause there's a playground and a lake back there, with hilariously ugly ducks that are fun to feed until they get too greedy. No chickens, however; they must not believe in playing with one's food.
So we find a table that's mostly in the shade, right on the edge of the concrete patio. Past the edge is dirt and shrubbery, with a grassy hill beyond, overlooking the lake. The location starts out okay, but after awhile, the sun has changed position enough that it's sort of in my eyes, so I decide to slide over.
We are right. On the edge. Of the concrete.
One leg of my metal chair goes off the concrete, and I head ass-over-teakettle into the landscaping. I wind up on my back, with one hand in the dirt, trying to right myself while trapped in this bigassed metal chair. Now, while I complain that my gut is growing bigger for the first time in my life, I'm not by any means overweight -- yet (6'2", less than 200 lbs). I also only have half of one margarita in me at this point. Even so, I can't get out of this fucking chair and right myself, and as a couple fellow patrons come over to help haul me up, I have hideous flashbacks to an awful lunch at a restaurant with my drunken, overweight father, who kept falling over in his chair. :shudder:
Then, to add injury to insult, I feel a sharp pain in my wrist, and there's this one little ant chewing on me. Not a fire ant, just a little black ant. I slap it away, but the little bastard has managed to inject me with his formic acid or whatever, and two huge welts balloon up. They stayed the same size and painfulness until just today, 4 days later, when they're finally starting to shrink. (:bunnythrust:)
So, glad that's over. That has to be the most embarassing thing to happen to me all weekend, right?
The next day, my wife has this Brilliant Plan to go to a nearby park for a picnic. It's actually a really nice park, except that as opposed to the previous day's Really Fucking hot, it's now OMG Are You Fucking Kidding Me hot. We take the neighbor kid along who's Li'l Puppet's age (the one belonging to the family we don't hate), and after having lunch we decide to find a shady spot to toss Li'l Puppet's ball around. Well, the best spot is on a hill overlooking a half-dried-up creekbed.
This is one of those cheapie Wal-Mart-issue balls, the type they keep a couple hundred of in those giant cages while they wait to be either adopted or euthanized. But for some reason Li'l Puppet has feelings of attachment for this stupid ball. So when one of the kids misses the catch and it goes rolling down the hill toward the creek, I go chasing after it like a brain-damaged Irish setter.
The creek is half dried up. The half that's dried up, arid and cracked on the surface, is on the near side, the water's on the other.
Y'know what happens when a creek half dries up in subtropical fucking swampland? Yes, you probably know. I think I did too, but for some reason that didn't stop me.
Not until I'd taken about half a dozen steps into it. That's when my brain got its message to my feet, i.e., "What the hell are you morons doing?"
I suppose I should consider myself lucky they only ended up ankle-deep in foul-smelling, black slime, and I didn't do a faceplant.
So the Li'l Puppet is despondent about losing her precious $2.99 ball*, I'm wearing slime galoshes, and it's hotter than Satan's bunghole (and at this point probably smells about the same). This is Fate's lovingly subtle way of telling me it's time to go home.
Later that afternoon, we set up a new Slip 'n' Slide for the kids, and my fully-clothed wife tried to demonstrate how to use it. Not nearly as epic a FAIL as mine, but at least somebody else was doing something :hoot:-worthy for a change. Maybe she did it on purpose.
I spent that evening making my Sooper Sekrit Recipe margaritas for our friends and getting nearly as drunk as I should've been to do the stupid things I'd already done while sober that weekend. I walked steadily and didn't so much as spill my drink the entire night. I don't think I want to know what the moral to this story is.
*The next day she gave equal time to both her sadness over the ball's demise and her gratefulness that I didn't "drown in the quicksand," lest anyone think she valued the ball over me. We are roughly equal in value, dammit.